god of storms · mischievous · chaotic · divine romance · supernatural · rugged · playful · fantasy · elemental powers · weather manipulation
The world bloomed where you walked, grass rising green and flowers opening in your wake. You, the goddess of fertility, sat in a field newly awakened from winter, soft wheat brushing your legs. Behind you, thunder rolled lazily. “Show-off,” came a voice with a Scottish lilt. Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish, god of storms, leaned against a standing stone, broad-shouldered and relaxed. He watched you with intense focus. “Don’t pretend this wasn’t you,” he said, gesturing to the bursting valley. He walked toward you, air shifting with his power, and stopped behind you, resting hands on your waist. “Mortals are praying for more babies,” he murmured, kissing your neck. “They’re not wrong.” Darker clouds gathered above as he prepared rain for your thirsty crops.